


observations

by lester_sheehan



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Gen, Other, i'll stop writing abt cicero when i'm dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9768245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lester_sheehan/pseuds/lester_sheehan
Summary: Terentia is aware of far more than Cicero believes. A short drabble.





	

_I know, it's a mistake_

_Falling in love, to make a friend stay_

_Disgrace, give me a break_

_I'm trying to die happy someday_

_\- ‘Tired and Awake’, Oliver Riot_

Wasn’t it funny, he thought, how one person could change another’s life so entirely?

He sat at his desk, chin resting in the palm of his left hand, and stared at the wall opposite. The sun streamed through his window like the gleam of a sword, scattering golden-coloured light throughout the room. With his right hand, his fingers tapped rhythmically against the wood, and his brow was gently furrowed, as though contemplating a small, yet rather troublesome, problem.

There was a harsh knock at the door, and then, without waiting for an answer, Terentia entered. Cicero’s eyes—a sharp and rich blue, enhanced by the added light—followed her movements as she came to stand before him. He glanced up at her, as though this was an ordinary occurrence. “May I help you?” he said, languidly.

Terentia leaned forward, resting one palm flat on the desk. Her face was close to his (she could see the flutter of his eyelids and the almost-hidden anxiety in his expression) as she said, “You have been locked up in here all day.” He raised one eyebrow in a challenge, but when Terentia’s mouth curled into a smirk, he realised there and then that this would not be a victory for him. She said, “Look at you,” and chuckled softly. “You are a schoolboy with a crush.”

Cicero bit the inside of his lip and smiled wryly. Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know what you are talking about, dear, but—”

“Liar.”

He removed his chin from his hand, rested his back against the chair, and met her gaze once more. “Liar?” His tone was bemused, as though a child had said some silly, amusing statement and he could not bear to ruin their fun, but Terentia’s resolve did not break.

She repeated the word slowly, as though savouring the taste. She said, “Liar.”

And suddenly, Cicero felt his control of the situation waver. Felt it fall through his fingers and slither towards Terentia, where she could do with it as she wished.

And Terentia, being Terentia, would use it expertly against him.

“Is that a blush?” she said, finally drawing back. Her back was as straight as her stare. She looked towards the window. “Well, you are not doing much to help your case, Marcus.”

“It is not a blush,” Cicero said, and to his credit, his voice did not quiver.

Terentia observed as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “How many years has it been?” she said, and when he looked at her blankly, she answered for him: “Far too many, I think.” Perhaps wisely, he stayed silent. “Things are peaceful now. You are not exiled. You are in Rome, and he is in Rome, and I have been watching you watching him for 30-odd years.”

“I do not _watch_ him.”

“When he is around, I do not think you acknowledge much else.”

Cicero rolled his eyes, pushed his chair back and stood. “This is absurd,” he said.

“Isn’t it just,” Terentia sighed.

He ran a finger across his lips. And then, without allowing himself time to think, pausing only to grant Terentia a small, defeated nod, he left the room. 

He could be at Atticus' villa within ten minutes, he thought.


End file.
